Why wouldn’t I be troubled? Learning my craft is still necessary, but it won’t be enough to destroy the Dead Wood before the rot takes my best friend.

“I think … I think the best way to restore control over the Dead Wood is to find out what’s keeping the spirits rooted to the trees. We need to undo whatever curse keeps them here.”

Without moving a single muscle, Ronin cuts me a look that makes my tongue shrink back in my mouth. His eyes narrow into thin chips of sapphire. “It’s no wonder you’ve made so little progress summoning your craft when you squander your time on useless pursuits. We already have a solution to the problem—your power, which you’re meant to be developing. Instead, you dawdle over questions I’ve already exhausted.”

I bite the inside of my cheeks and force a small, acquiescent bow. His response only confirms that I won’t find any answers with him. I’ll have to seek them elsewhere.

“Of course,” I agree, schooling my voice into something neutral.

“You’ll be glad to know that the shaman who attacked your friend was captured three nights ago.”

And you’re only telling me now? “I’m relieved to hear that. What were his motives?”

“I sent soldiers to collect him for interrogation. But before they could, the shaman escaped. Evidently, there was a prison break at the Valley of Cranes, and the shaman took advantage.”

Frustration pinches at my temples. Of course he escaped. Could nothing go right? “I see. But you’ll recover him?”

“As soon as I can. But in the meantime, some of the escaped shamanborn have arrived at my western encampment. I’m leaving to meet them in the morning.”

Surprised, I smother my rising anger. “You’re going to help them?”

“I won’t return them to Queen Meilyr, but as a neutral entity, I’m unable to do anything for them.”

In the firelight, the hard angles of his face soften. I don’t know how to interpret his expression, but I imagine it’s not one he wears often. As the ruler of the Dead Wood, softness or vulnerability are indulgences that are not available to him. He must always be in control, and for the first time, I wonder at the burden he must carry.

“But you wish you could?” I ask quietly.

Any shred of softness in him vanishes. He links his fingers together, once again the picture of calm. I can’t tell if it’s an act. How many years, decades, lifetimes even, would it take for someone to become unmoved by tragedy?

When he responds, it’s without inflection. “I do what I must to keep the peace.”

I shouldn’t have overstepped. Straightening my shoulders, I say as firmly as I dare, “I’d like to accompany you to your encampment.”

He regards me for an excruciatingly long second. “For what reason?”